


Watching the Detectives

by 105NorthTower



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: Conversations, F/M, Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-16 01:47:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 1,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29199342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/105NorthTower/pseuds/105NorthTower
Summary: Apologies, this starts out like a case but really it's just some nonsense I dreamed up so I could write Wardle - Strike dialogue, because I love Wardle. As someone once said, "You'll be disappointed, there's literally nothing to see."It took a sleep but the last paragraph just came to me, so I've added it. And ...relax.
Relationships: Cormoran Strike & Eric Wardle
Comments: 34
Kudos: 40





	1. 06:05

06:05am

"You know how this works, Strike."

Wardle sipped his coffee calmly and met the angry glare of the man sitting opposite.

"People turn up."

The desk between them was crowded with stale coffee cups, an overflowing green glass ashtray missing a sizeable chunk from one corner, three empty fag packets (Benson & Hedges Gold 20s) and numerous case files in various states of disarray. It was the mess of files that worried Wardle the most.

"Usually within 24 hours, almost always ..."

"People?"

"... within 48.'

"People." Strike repeated with heavy menace, but Wardle was used to dealing with angry men. He paused and maintained eye contact, allowing Strike's anger to wash over him. It was Strike who looked away and only then did his companion regard him with something approaching pity.

"I understand ..."

"No you don't. You really don't."

"... what you're going through. I've said ..."

"I'm asking you as a friend, Wardle. Not as a fucking DCI!"

"... I will do anything I can to get enquiries moving. As a friend, Strike. A friend."

Strike fell into a morose silence, and Wardle took this as invitation enough to take out his notebook. 

"Now. Tell me about the last time you saw Robin."


	2. 06:15

Strike stubbed out his cigarette and pinched the bridge of his nose. 

"She hasn't checked in since 3 o'clock yesterday afternoon."

"Did you speak to her then?"

"No." Strike said, heavily. "She spoke to Pat."

"That's ...Pat Chauncey, your secretary?"

"Office Manager."

Strike leaned back in his chair. Wardle unclenched something he didn't realise he was clenching. _Allowing a small error to be corrected will often promote trust_ , he thought. 

"Aha. Well, I'll ask Vanessa to talk to her when she gets here. But from your point of view, the check-in was unremarkable?"

"Yes. She was on surveillance in Hackney. Expected to finish at 6pm. She'd normally check in at about that time."

"And then again when she was finished? Or would she hand over to her replacement?"

"Both, but there was no hand over ... the mark had a regular appointment at 6. Barclay was due to pick up surveillance at 7pm."

"So Barclay didn't see her."

"No."

"And when was the last time you actually saw her."

"At 9 in the morning yesterday, when she arrived for work.'

"What passed between you then?"

"Nothing."

Wardle looked up from his notebook and raised an eyebrow.

Strike sighed. "Really. She came in to check a file. I was on the phone when she arrived. I heard her talk to Pat. She made some tea. Came in here. Saw I was tied up with a long call. Left it on the desk. Five minutes later, she was gone."

"She make you tea often?"

"Yeah. Well, we make each other tea. Like you do."

"Not in the Met, you don't." said Wardle, dryly.

For the first time since he arrived, Strike's expression lightened.


	3. 06:30

"What?" Wardle asked.

"Hmn?"

"You just had a thought, Gooner."

Strike sat forward again. _Shit_ , Wardle thought. _Inappropriate tone. Too casual._

"I've been having nothing but thoughts since she disappeared. Mainly death and dismemberment."

Wardle shook his head. "Get a grip, Strike. She's highly unlikely to have experienced either of those."

"I know. I was thinking of what I'm going to do to whoever's got her."

 _Stupid thing to say to a policeman_ , Wardle mused. _Subject not stupid. Ergo, deflection._

He turned a page in his notebook. "How is business?"

"You don't have to go through a bastard checklist, Wardle. I know the bastard drill. If the state of the bastard business was a factor, I'd've mentioned it."

Wardle waited until Strike had slumped back in his seat.

"How is business?"

Strike groaned. "Business is good. Since the Bamborough case broke we've been frantic. Too much work for the four of us. If it stays like this, we'll have to take on new staff. Can I have a business loan?"

Wardle ignored the jibe. "So, all of you working flat out?"

"Yes."

Wardle glanced at the chaos on the desk. _This needed to be done carefully._

"I know there's confidentiality issues, but ... is there anything I need to know about your current cases."

Whether because he was ashamed of his earlier outburst, or genuinely thought it was a good question, Wardle couldn't tell, but Strike deliberately gave it some consideration. After a few minutes he picked up an empty fag packet, shook it and tossed it back on the desk, then another, and another, crushing the last with a muttered curse.

"Fucking hell. I don't know. Robin is leading the worst one - financial misconduct - she has a knack for that. The others ... they're the usual." He gave Wardle a pointed look. "Sniffing sheets."


	4. 06:45

Wardle grinned. "Oh man, I thought we were past that?"

Strike laughed. "Yeah. But it's been a tough night."

"You want to tell me who killed Lula Landry again? I don't mind if it helps ..." Without waiting for a response, he continued, "So, no-one you're following who might have rumbled and taken offence?"

"No-one springs to mind."

Strike rose and looked out of the window and Wardle caught a whiff of stale sweat. _Preliminary appraisal of the physical evidence as soon it comes to hand_. He took in Strike's rumpled clothes, riotous hair and stubble, and the inky shadows under his eyes.

"Up all night?"

"Yeah."

Wardle watched as Strike looked down at himself and then over the desk to take in Wardle's pressed shirt, polished shoes, immaculate jeans and closely trimmed hair. 

"Christ. Should have asked for Carver."


	5. 06:50

Wardle's dry chuckle was interrupted by the buzz of a phone vibrating on a heavy wooden surface. Strike turned too quickly and half-fell onto his desk. A coffee cup toppled to the floor and shattered, spraying Wardle's shoes with dregs. Strike stood again, swiping urgently at the phone's surface and issuing single words in a stacato of panic.

"Why. Don't. My. Fingers. Work. Yes, yes, who is it?"

He fell to his chair again. "Oh. Hi. No, there's no word. Yes, her phone is still off. I'm with him now. Yes, OK. See you later."

Wardle waited.

Strike stared at the phone. "Pat. At her sister's house. The number came up as ... as ..."

"Unknown."

"I thought it might be ..."

Wardle pretended to be looking at his notebook for a while as Strike's face was covered by his shaking hands. When he thought it was safe to do so, he cleared his (already perfectly clear) throat.

"Strike, I have to ask you."

The look on his friend's face would have quelled a riot, but Wardle went on.

"And I want you to take the question in the spirit it's intended."

A pause. Wardle tried not to glance towards the door. _You're already well aware of all the bloody exits._

"What's the current status of your relationship with Robin Ellacott?"


	6. 06:55

Strike's face was poker straight.

"Not relevant."

"Come on, Strike."

Wardle waited. 

"You're good, mate, but on this subject your face might as well be a three act fucking play."

_You're bluffing and he knows it. He's not going to fall for this._

"We're partners."

_Holy shit, he fell for it. Well done Wardle, here comes the flood._

"Just partners?"

"We ... have been."

"So, you have been just partners. When did that change?"

Silence.

"Strike!"

"Night before last."

_Details, Strike. Come on._

"I saw an email as I was passing her desk. From Met Recruitment. I thought she was thinking of leaving."

_Say nothing. Give him the rope._

"So, I asked her. She ... she said she was thinking about it."

_Vanessa Ekwensi, you absolute beauty._

"So I told her." Strike checked all the fag packets again and felt his trouser pockets. "That I didn't think much of that idea." He rose, crossed to the coat stand and checked his jacket pockets too.

"You silver-tongued charmer. Then what?"

"She said she didn't want to leave. But that it might be unavoidable one day."

_Oh god, they're just fucking made for each other._

"If ... if ... you know. We were to ... Oh FUCK OFF Wardle! I can see you're amused but this is not helping find her, is it?"


	7. 07:01

"You asked for our help, Strike. I have to ask these questions. Change of relationship status is a big factor in disappearances."

Strike slapped his jacket away and left the coat stand rocking precariously.

"Relationship breakdown. Not ... you know. The other."

Wardle made a record of that in his notebook. "OK, let's recap."

Strike sat down again and gave Wardle his whole attention.

"The night before last, you and Ms Ellacott embarked on a relationship. She seemed happy with this outcome?"

He paused and looked for Strike's response.

"She was very happy."

"How do you know?"

"You ever made your wife happy, Wardle?"

"OK, we'll come back to that. The following morning she makes some tea and departs for the day. She isn't seen again."

Strike grunted his assent.

"Did you find any fags? I could really do with one. OK. When did you first realise she was missing?" 

Strike considered. "I got back here after my surveillance at about 22:15. Barclay texted to say all was well. That was when I noticed there was no text from Robin. I called her and went through to voicemail. I've been calling every twenty minutes until you got here. Voicemail every time. Her phone must be off or her battery is flat."

"Well, this is speculative, but she's overworked and perhaps very tired at the end of a long day. She forgets to put her phone on charge. Be that as it may ... you're sure she's not at home?"

"Yes. I went straight to her address. Her flatmate hasn't seen her."

"No friends that she might go to for moral support?"

Strike didn't register the comment. Wardle watched as his friend's face crumpled a little, and checked his watch. 07:01.

"Strike," he said, gently, "Check your desk, bud. There might be a stray pack of Benson & Hedges in there."

Strike looked at him, "What?"

"Your desk, mate. Go on, I really need a smoke "

Strike muttered "Pain in the arse," and opened the top drawer of his desk. "No, I don't think ..."

There was a pause.

_Oh please,_ thought Wardle. _Let this be real. I'll never ask for anything again._

"My keys."

"Hm?"

"My spare flat keys. They're not here."

Wardle checked his watch again. 07:03. "You know, I think there's a subsection of PACE mandating that if we locate a missper within the hour, I don't have to report to every Met officer above DC that the great Cormoran Strike couldn't find his arse with both hands."

***

Wardle paused in the doorway of the Denmark Street building, felt in his jacket pocket, and took out his cigarettes and lighter. Still smiling, he lit up before setting off through the roadworks towards the tube, April and home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry. (runs away)


End file.
